


iron

by SinSmith



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Agamemnon is a piece of shit., Anal Sex, But it's not appearing on screen, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Mentioned Achilles/Patroclus, POV First Person, Patroclus First Person, Porn with Feelings, Rape, Rough Oral Sex, Verse Patroclus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinSmith/pseuds/SinSmith
Summary: “There is one thing that Achilles values more than his famous pride.”Patroclus trades himself to Agamemnon for Briseis' freedom.
Relationships: Achilles & Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus, Agamemnon/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Agamemnon/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	iron

**Author's Note:**

> A scene that falls after Briseis has been taken and she and Patroclus are discovered in Agamemnon's tent.
> 
> This is my first attempt at mirroring Madeline Miller's writing, so it is written first person from Patroclus' point of view and may be very upsetting to folks, particularly survivors of sexual assault/sexual violence. It's not necessarily 'titillating' as some of my non-con/dub-con pieces have been. Please proceed with caution. 
> 
> It is not nearly so graphic as my other works, but merits an explicit tag just due to content, I think. Like in Miller's original, I attempt to leave a lot of context unexplained so you need to infer the things characters are thinking and feeling- as well as her more simpler linguistics- so I'd love to hear your thoughts on whether or not I accomplished it.

“There is one thing that Achilles values more than his famous pride.”    
  
Agamemnon looms over me and there is cruelty flashing behind his eyes. I am wrapped in Briseis’ tender arms where she threw herself atop me, as if she might shield me from the king with her flesh and bone alone.    
  
With careful hands, I unpeel her, sit up in the bed where he has discovered us. I feel the pinpricks of danger down my spine, but I do not flinch as I examine his face. He is not so fierce, I think, as he once was. Smaller now than I remember him when I knelt before Helen all those years ago.    
  
“I think you are mistaken. There is nothing he values more than his honor.” His legacy, his precious glory. Even now, I cannot feel bitterly towards him. He made his choice and we have traveled across the world to chase it.    
  
I feel eyes on my skin, feel my brow darken. We have all, as the king approaches the bed, made choices.    
  
“It is unwise to tell a king he is mistaken, Patroclus. I had thought the girl Achilles’ prize- but I know now there is something more precious to him. Grace this to me, let him know I’ve taken what was his and his alone- and I will release Briseis to him in the morning. Him who  _ bested _ Achilles- I will bring you to kneel before me, and tomorrow I will give him the  _ honor  _ he so willingly tossed away.”    
  
I feel my stomach fall, my throat grow tight.    
  
“He will kill you before he lets you keep me.” I know the words are true as they fall from my lips. Achilles might think Briseis a worthy sacrifice for his precious future, but not me- never me. I know it as surely as I know the sun will rise, the tide will change.    
  
“That I do not doubt. But I’ve no need to  _ keep  _ you. I’ll merely send you back, well-fucked, to your prince. You will know, and I, and he, and the girl... We will see if you warm his bed so sweetly once he knows I’ve had you.”   
  
The words fall between us and the air festers.    
  
It is an unspeakable thing. The coward in me wishes to look to Briseis, to seek assurance in her eyes. But I know what they would say. Her fingers dig into the skin of my arm, and I cannot look at her. For she would tell me not to, that it is impossible. She loves me, in her strange way, and would not ask such a thing of me for all the world.    
  
The cruel truth circles behind my teeth.  _ It is a fitting punishment _ , I think,  _ to suit the crime he has committed.  _ Why not take the fate he intended for Briseis upon myself? If it would spare them both, spare the Greeks. It is not so great a thing. As for my pride… that will live, and die, with Achilles.    
  
“Very well. Give me your word.”   
  
“I will see you and the girl released to his  _ golden embrace,”  _ his voice drips with venom, “unharmed come morning.”    
  
“And you will concede to him.”   
  
“As you concede to me, yes yes. Are you content with our arrangement? Bought and sold like a prize cattle. Bold Patroclus.” He mocks me and I feel fury and shame pool behind my eyes. But I ball my fists and I steel myself.    
  
“I’ll do what must be done. No matter how repugnant.” I look up at him with bravery I do not feel. “You cannot have me in any way that matters.”   
  
Agamemnon, the fool, the brute, just grunts and shakes his long curls back over his broad shoulders. He does not bother with a response and that perhaps is worse than any retort he could have summoned.    
  
“Kneel.” He will make me crawl to him, I realize, and my hackles rise. My limbs feel leaden, the weight of the ocean seeping into them; I haul myself like the tides to the edge of the bed. I hear Briseis whimper but I cannot look at her. “Please, go-” I say quietly, but he does not allow that.    
  
“No, she stays. Someone must tell brave Achilles. Best of the Greeks.” He makes a mockery of the name and I realize how deep his disdain runs. Here he is, a king who has been unconquered his whole life, ruled and brought together an impossible continent- and he will have to beg for the forgiveness of the prince of Phthia, prince of nothing. Because he is radiant and unstoppable.    
  
I realize, as I fall to my knees, as Agamemnon watches me imperiously, that we have already won. He has shown his hand.    
  
But he has not yet realized it and the satisfaction makes something cruel twist in my stomach, even as I bunch his tunic in my fists, as my mouth closes around the salt and sweat and heat of him. He’s large and vulgar on my tongue, he grips my hair and I’m overwhelmed by the smell of him.    
  
He is nothing like Achilles and for that I am grateful, for Achilles has left his mark on every inch of my skin, and he is still and unwavering and beautiful. Agamemnon is cruel and demanding, he catches fistfuls of my dark hair and uses my mouth for his pleasure. I gag, my vision swims, and spit drips down my jaw; his length snaps into my throat and it is brutal, again and again until I cannot breathe, cannot think. It is through resolve alone I do not get sick with it, that I open for him til my lips are bruised and my head reels.    
  
But I have lain with a god, and he is nothing compared to him; his patience, his desire, are fast and petty and mortal and I feel disdain for him. Disdain and pity.    
  
He forces me to the bed, pins me down and spreads my thighs- calls for Briseis to fetch the oil, to demean her. But she will live, even as humiliation burns my ears- even as he slicks my entrance, coarse fingers spread me open. It hurts and I do not care. I do not care. For this is not an act of pleasure, it is an act of survival. It is like war, like battle, and I will fight.    
  
So when he moves to spear me open, I pin him down; hands that could easily overpower me grab at my throat, ready to hiss that I am a traitor, call for the guards just beyond.    
  
I train my features, lick my lips.    
  
“Do you think Achilles’ chosen lover simply lays there and  _ takes  _ it?” I ask him, and from the way his eyes darken, the way his fingers bruise at my thighs- I know it has worked.    
  
He lets me guide the dance, lets me grab at his tunic and the muscle of his body. Lets me straddle his thighs and impale myself on his thick cock, slick with spit and oil. It burns and I do not care. There is vulgar technicality to this act. No more vital or erotic than setting bones, than bandaging flesh. Except this wound is one I am digging my fingers into, spreading open.    
  
I ride him silently til he grows suspicious, mocking my stoicism. I resist the urge to tell him he feels like nothing inside me when I have taken Achilles, that I’ve buried my face in golden hair and the body of a god, had him naked in the sun and spread before me like a lyre, that I have played every tremulous note- I keep these things to myself.    
  
Instead, I feel my face twist into something cruel. With each lift, I see his undoing, with each drop I bring it closer to bloom.    
  
My groans of pleasure are a mockery and I do not conceal it; I do not thicken when he touches me.  _ Yes my lord please my lord just like that. _ I spear myself open on him time and time again and I know I will ache come morning- but then let me ache.    
  
I laugh when he spills himself inside me. He backhands me for my trouble and sends me sprawling. “There. You’ve been paid like the whore you are. How cheap is the honor of great Achilles.”    
  
He tries to wound but I don’t hear him. Briseis moves to clean me, to take me from the tent. I am in a fog, I don’t feel her hands, don’t realize I am shuddering until she attempts to clean spend off my thigh and I jerk free from her.    
  
I feel only pity. I feel like iron. 


End file.
